


Golden Night

by ryukoishida



Category: Free!
Genre: M/M, Post-Series, sappy confession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-21
Updated: 2014-11-21
Packaged: 2018-02-26 11:07:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2649743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryukoishida/pseuds/ryukoishida
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Autumn in Tokyo is different. There are no vibrant reds or golden yellows to be found unless you search for it in parks and shrines, and even then it’s different from home. At least there’s one person in Makoto’s life who remains a constant, but that’s about to change on his birthday when Haruka asks to meet him at Koishikawa Korakuen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Golden Night

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from one of Miyano Mamoru’s songs, because it happened to come on when I’m writing this. Koishikawa Korakuen is a Japanese garden well known for viewing leaves in the autumn and cherry blossoms in the spring; it’s located close to Tokyo Dome. This was meant to be written for Makoto’s birthday; hey, I’m only like, 3 days late! Aye.

_From: Haru_

_Let’s have a picnic at Koishikawa Korakuen after your classes are done._

 

Makoto receives this brief text from his best friend at around lunchtime as he rushes from his psychology lecture to his sociology tutorial, and he vaguely wonders if today is a special occasion as he knows Haruka is not someone who likes to initiate an invitation to an outing. He wonders if he should be worried.

 

_Should I bring anything along?_

 

Makoto types back, narrowly avoiding a group of students swarming out of another classroom.

 

_Just yourself._

 

            Then as an after thought, Haruka adds:

 

_Maybe some drinks._

 

            After purchasing two bottles of beverage from a nearby convenience store – a carbonated lemon-flavoured soft drink for himself, and Pocari Sweat for Haruka since his coach has been lecturing him on his sugar-intake – Makoto strides speedily towards his destination.

 

            The late afternoon sun of November is strangely warm as light sprinkles past the concrete forest of office buildings and the few trees that line the busy streets. The air is less stifling the closer he gets to Koishikawa Korakuen, one of the oldest and grandest Japanese gardens in the city; the backdrop of Tokyo Dome should be intrusive, but instead it only serves as a reminder that the otherworldly park is a rare natural escape that citizens can find temporary peace from their busy everyday lives.

 

            At the park entrance, Haruka can already be seen waiting with a large backpack heavy with what Makoto assumes to be their meals. He’s listening to music, the white cables snaking down his chest and occasionally sways in the breeze and he’s tapping his foot to the beat. When the dark-haired boy finally spots him, he gives him a small smile, tugging the earbuds out and taking the few steps to meet him halfway.

 

            Makoto’s breathing is slightly on the erratic side and his cheeks are flushed from cold and exertion, but his grin is as vibrant as always whenever he sees his childhood friend. Now that they are studying at different schools and living in different parts of town, it’s getting more and more difficult for them to meet up – what with Haruka’s strict training schedules and Makoto’s classes and exams – so the time they did find to spend together is always precious and treasured.  

 

            “Sorry I’m late, Haru!”

 

            “We didn’t set a time,” Haruka reminds him, and Makoto just chuckles as the two of them enter the garden.

 

            Beyond the iron gates is an entirely different world. Makoto has heard about the astounding beauty of the garden, but it’s the first time he’s been here to witness it for himself.

 

            Autumn in Tokyo is different. There are no golden yellows or vibrant reds to be found unless you search for it in parks and shrines, and even then it’s not quite the same as home. There’s a sort of freedom with which the leaves back home would dance in the late fall sea breeze, and the palette of their little town will transform from its coral blues and deep greens to a roaring spectrum of deep burgundy and sunlight amber.

 

In the city, a monotonous maze of glass and metal buildings traps its peoples’ hearts, and for the first few weeks in this strange city, Makoto has found himself thinking about home often and doubting his decision to move here to study, but soon, college life consumes him and he has no time to even think about anything else other than essay deadlines and new materials he’s learned.

 

Having Haruka living in the same city helps, even though they don’t spend as much time with each other as they used to; still, his best friend is one link to home Makoto can still cling to, and he has never been happier.

 

            They chatter mindlessly about their day at school over Haruka’s hand-made bentos, which Makoto notices contain all of his favourite dishes, and he remarks on it with a startled chuckle, teasing his friend that it’s the first time in a long while since his cooking didn’t involve any parts of mackerel. Haruka just gives him a nonchalant shrug, blue gaze lowering to his food without another word, and Makoto watches him with a soft, thoughtful hum.

 

            They don’t speak for the rest of their meal, which isn’t all that unusual, but the brunet can sense a hint of tension radiating from Haruka in the way he holds his stature too stiffly. Makoto has counted at least three times when it has looked like Haruka was about to say something, but then he would put more food into his mouth in an attempt to swallow whatever he was about to say, and this isn’t like him at all. Still, Makoto knows by now that forcing him to talk when he’s clearly not ready to do so will only make the situation worse, so he waits.

 

            After they put away all their utensils, Makoto suggests taking a stroll around the garden, and Haruka nods in agreement, walking beside him in the same stride, their arms almost touching but not quite.

 

            The sun has begun to set and signs of twilight are flickering into existence: streetlights blink around them like stars though the real ones in the sky are only just appearing in the darkening, bruised sky of velvet blue and deep violet, the crowd on the streets grows thicker as people eagerly rush out of offices at the end of another weekday, and above their heads, fairy lights that drape over the bare branches of some of the naked deciduous trees that have already shed their leaves weeks ago began to come to life in tiny soft, white flares.

 

            “So, what’s the big occasion?” Makoto isn’t looking at him but asks in a casual tone.

 

            “What do you mean?” Haruka’s quiet voice is tinged with cautiousness.

 

            “Making my favourite foods, going leaves-viewing with me even though you hate crowds? What’s going on, Haru?”

 

            There’s a poignant pause. They both stop beside a man-made pond lined haphazardly with rocks. It would have been covered with water lilies in the summer, but in the meantime, only a few browning pads float lifelessly on the still surface. The branches plump with fiery orange and rich red foliage act as nature’s picture frame that momentarily preserves the beauty that will soon rot and fade into decay and frost.

 

“It’s your birthday,” Haruka reminds him in that soft, exasperated tone he sometimes uses with his best friend when he’s too slow.

 

            “Oh.” Makoto has been swept up by so much assigned reading, essays, and mid-term exams for the last couple of weeks that he has entirely forgotten about his own birthday as days and nights blend together into one gigantic sleep-deprived blob of time. When he realizes what Haruka has done is all for his benefit, and when he sees the dark-haired boy turns his head away in embarrassment, Makoto can’t help but let a trickle of relieved chuckles out of his throat, which turns into a full-on burst of sunshine laughter, the sound warm and welcoming. “Right.”

 

            They begin to walk again, the decision wordlessly agreed upon.

 

            “You’re good at taking care of other people around you, but you always neglect yourself,” Haruka mutters, the hand that’s been playing with the straps of his backpack tightens around the material and Makoto has half a mind to reach out and rub the restless anxiety out of those graceful fingers.

 

            “I have you though,” Makoto smiles at him instead, green eyes softened by a gentle fondness that Haruka has always noticed but is too afraid to ponder about the implication of for too long.

 

Or maybe it’s the dots of fairy lights above them playing tricks on Haruka’s vision; at this point, he can’t really tell. What has been a nameless storm stirring deep inside his chest for the past years and growing into something stronger still – almost out of his control – is clasping his throat, making him breathless. His heart is stuttering, words that are swirling in his head a meaningless mess.

 

            “If it weren’t for you, Haru, I don’t know if I’d be able to handle Tokyo,” Makoto continues with an easy grin, and their fingers are brushing, skin scorched by the smallest of contacts, but the coolness of Tokyo’s autumn soothes the sting of loss.

 

            Haruka blinks at the brunet’s blunt statement; he always puts his heart on his sleeve for everyone to see, and he’s so transparent at times that it isn’t hard to read Makoto at all. But what Makoto has just admitted – there’s a hint of raw honesty there, as if he really believes that without Haruka, he would have crumbled away, swallowed up by the concrete limbs and blind eyes of the city.

 

            He doesn’t like the thought of that – of Makoto falling apart, lost. And he doesn’t believe it, either.

 

            “You’re strong enough, Makoto,” Haruka says, chancing a brief glance at the taller boy. He has shifted his gaze to somewhere further up ahead, the green of his irises made brighter and more ethereal by the artificial starlight in the trees.

 

            “I don’t know about that,” the brunet shrugs with a smile, “but I’m just glad that you’re here with me.”

 

            Haruka doesn’t know how to reply, words too thick and clumsy and they get stuck in his throat, so he stays silent, looking straight ahead and trying to decipher the puzzle of whether there’s another layer to the meaning of Makoto’s words.

 

            Like many times before, he gives up before he can let the sentiment washes over him and suffocates him.

 

            “Come on,” Makoto reaches for his hand without any sort of hesitation, and Haruka is stunned for half a second because how long – how long has it been since they can initiate contacts like this when simple touches and hand-holding had been such a natural gesture for them since they were children?

 

            “Makoto?” If there’s a trace of panic laced in his voice, Haruka is doing his best to bury the tremble as an effect of the evening breeze that’s teasing their exposed skin. “What are you ––?”

 

            “I saw on the sign that says that this pathway has the best view of the trees,” Makoto tells him, excitement colouring his tone as he drags his best friend towards said location, and Haruka can’t help but let an amused chuckle out, a hand slapping over his mouth in an attempt to mute the sound, but Makoto already heard him, which only makes him laugh more openly.

 

            A few people send them strange looks as they rush past, the breeze turning into something more fierce that cuts across their faces, leaving them with flushed cheeks and chaffed skin and erratic breaths that almost sting their throats as they take in more of the sharp, cold air.

 

            “Why…why are we running?” Haruka huffs. Even his rigid athletic training at the university swim team doesn’t help; he blames the tight grasp of Makoto’s fingers on his hand for why he’s suddenly having difficulty breathing normally.

 

            Makoto looks back with a dazzling but timid smile. “Because it gives me an excuse to hold your hand.”

 

            Again, Haruka says nothing and hopes that the companionable silence they always share is enough to convey what he’s feeling, which is something even he has a hard time identifying.

 

            They finally stop in the middle of the path, the ground a lush carpet of dry leaves that crunch with every step they take, the shades under the dimmed white pinpricks of light an ever-changing continuum of rich reds and vibrant yellows tinged with aging green.

 

            Their hands are still linked, and neither Haruka nor Makoto has any intention of letting go of each other. As their labored breaths slow down steadily, they are able to appreciate the scenery around them: a row of Japanese maples on both sides of the trail are rustling, enflamed in a wave of deep scarlet interspersed with a few ginkgo trees that glow bright aureolin.

 

            For a moment, they forget that they are in the concrete jungle of Tokyo, their awed, wide-eyed gaze only focusing on the beautiful palette of leaves before and above them.

 

            Haruka looks over at his friend, and notices that the lights over them are scattering touches of gold over Makoto’s hair like a halo. He wants to reach up and touch that light – feel that warmth, the soft hair, the strong bridge of his nose, his lips. He doesn’t because he knows he’s not allowed – not yet.

 

            “Makoto,” Haruka lowers his head, dark forelocks covering his eyes and any emotions that may have been there.

 

            “Hmm?” Whether subconsciously or not, Makoto’s hand tightens over his when he smiles down at him, head tilted slightly to the side in question.

 

            Haruka catches his lower lip with his teeth, the warmth from Makoto’s palm a constant reminder of why his heart always beats a little harder when they are in close proximity, and why he has decided to ask him out today.

 

“Happy birthday, Makoto.” The words rush out in an exhale of white mist, and before he can convince himself out of doing what he has wanted to do for the longest time, Haruka tugs on Makoto’s hand, pulls him closer, and tip-toes to place a quick, chaste kiss on Makoto’s lips.

 

“Haru…” Makoto seems to have lost the ability to speak for the moment, his eyes blinking rapidly from the unexpected kiss, and the lashes are catching the ethereal light, too. Haruka tries not to stare, but it’s difficult when they are this physically close, the warmth of his body, the way his deep, hoarse voice wraps around his name, and gentle fingers clasping firmly with his clouding his mind.

 

            “Sorry,” Haruka tries to pull away, cheeks flooding with heat at the realization of what he’s done, but Makoto’s grip is relentless. “Sorry, I had to.” He’s mumbling, and he’s a fool for carrying out this plan in the first place.

 

            “Wait.”

 

            And then it’s Makoto swooping down to return the kiss, his other hand winding around Haruka’s waist to make sure he doesn’t move away, and it’s inexperienced – clumsy, almost – but it doesn’t matter because Makoto is kissing him, and everything is alight and filled with a familiar warmth in his world.

 

            “How long?” Makoto murmurs when they part for air, though his lips are still hovering dangerously close to the corner of Haruka’s mouth.

 

            “Too long,” Haruka replies in a whisper, and he thinks it may be too vague of an answer, but Makoto doesn’t seem to mind – not when the gesture of their fingers lacing together now has a different connotation, not when they are finally brave enough to tell each other “I love you.”

 

Not when they can kiss and touch and smile and laugh and cry and scream and walk in different paths and fall apart only to have the other to pick up the pieces and grow and they will experience all these mundane, everyday incidences together.

 

            The colours in the sky may fade one day, and there will be dark times when they forget momentarily just how vibrant and beautiful the world is, but this night will stay gold forever.


End file.
